


No Other Soul

by asylum69



Category: Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, M/M, Multi, Rape, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 03:03:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10867722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asylum69/pseuds/asylum69
Summary: This is a crossover between Highlander: the series and Hercules: the legendary Journeys. It is set years after Hercules' death when Iolaus is in his Forties and he is journeying outside of Greek in order to try to get over Hercules' death.Mistakes made in Roman territory land him in a very bad situation and it seems only a Roman citizen, Methos, can save him ...





	1. Chapter 1

(Starting right off with the smut, people ...)

 

Chapter One

(The Present time)

For the first time, he felt free enough to do what he wanted instead of living with guarded frustration because happy enough as he was, he still didn't have his freedom; for the first time, he realised that he had let that go and that the only real prison had been in his mind.

　

He leaned back against the pillar, letting the sun caress his body for the first time in weeks; he could smell the scent of the lavender and roses wafting out from the hot pool in the wide, cool room behind him and he breathed the intoxicating aroma deeply, letting it fill him with a sense of release in his body, mind and heart. A slight breeze wafted in from across the valley ...

　

Gods, it was so good to be home!

　

He felt Methos' gaze upon him and he turned, watching the tall, slim immortal luxuriating in the steaming water. There were tears in his eyes, and Iolaus, concerned, descended the steps and made his way across to the pool, only to halt, disconcerted, at the brink, as he was pulled up short by Methos turning away from him, and resting his head on his arms, laid them on the cool marble at the side of the pool.

　

"Methos ..."

　

When Iolaus saw the tiny shivers of movement in his shoulders, and realised he was weeping silently, he entered the pool, slowly; made his way over to Methos, and barely touched the back of his neck.

　

"Methos? What's wrong?"

　

When Methos turned back to face him finally, his aspect was so much that of a grieving child, that Iolaus, totally unmindful of their situation, took the older man into his arms and held him close and tight, whilst the other clung, and wept out the last of his tears. A small inner voice began to whisper a secret to Iolaus, which startled him at first, but then he found himself easily enough accepting it - if it was indeed the case. There was only one way to find out. "Is it me?" he asked Methos, softly, one hand lightly running through the dark hair soothingly.

　

Skin moving slowly on skin, Iolaus felt the power of the attraction strike him from out of nowhere, suddenly, as Methos moved back slightly in his arms to look at him. His eyes were red with weeping, his lashes heavy with tears, making him seem even more vulnerable. The answer to Iolaus' question was already in those dark eyes, nearly black as the pupils dilated, but Methos told him anyway. Iolaus knew enough to know that this man was no coward in the face of truth, and could see now that he was 　no miser with his feelings where love was involved.

　

Methos reached out shaking hands to rest lightly on Iolaus' neck, thumbs reaching up to caress the strong jawline. "You are so beautiful, Iolaus ... and that bastard nearly killed you; _would_ have without so much as a thought to what he was throwing away, like a passed-over, barely-tasted meal ..."

　

He lowered his head and more tears spilled from his closed eyes, down across his cheeks, and Iolaus reached out and traced them gently with his thumb, brushed them softly from his face with his fingertips. Methos looked up, hope growing in his eyes, and the barest trace of passion, building so slowly, searching desperately for the clues in Iolaus' own eyes.

　

Shaking his head over such unnecessary anguish, Iolaus drew closer to Methos and leaning in, just brushed his lips with his own, the barest hint of his soft, warm tongue caressing Methos' lower lip.

　

A gasped intake of breath and the sudden flick of open eyes, and Methos was confronted by that same sweet, knowledgeable smile that had first sparked the feelings he had harboured for this golden, impossibly caring man, all those months ago. That smile, only for him...

　

What could he say?

　

"I love you ..."

　

There was nothing else. Nothing that would any more succinctly express what he felt suffusing his whole being.

　

And that smile, that told him everything he needed to know; he still felt the burning flash of pleasure when he heard the words.

　

"I know ... I'm sorry I didn't see it sooner ..."

　

Those lips again, the incredible presence of them, the love they spoke of so eloquently, moving softly, slowly over his ... Methos felt himself already drowning in passion and knew he couldn't take much more; still his arms clung to Iolaus, as they kissed, and then the soft, gentle, slow and unbelievably erotic motion of Iolaus' tongue sliding along the cleft between Methos' lips, asking permission to enter ...

　

Methos opened to the sensual intruder, taking it deeply into his own mouth and suckling on it, like a newborn. He _felt_ newborn, like he had just been handed a whole new, incredible life, that he could hardly believe he deserved.

　

His senses heightened by the responses of the Immortal, Iolaus was only too aware of the deep, ragged breathing of both of them, and felt his heated blood rush to his groin to rapidly fill his penis. Breaking gently from the kiss for a moment, to breathe, he gazed back into his master's eyes and knew from that moment that he was a slave no longer.

 

The knowledge freed something joyful inside him and, winding his arms exultantly around the immortal's neck, he renewed the kiss, taking Methos' tongue into his mouth and sucking on it, gently at first, and then more and more strongly, until the older man was moaning - deep sounds of pleasure that caused his penis to fill almost to bursting point, and filled an aching place inside Iolaus that he hadn't even known was empty until it was filled - moaning and writhing against him, and the long, strong arms wrapped awkwardly, but intensely around his own smaller body, and something broke open inside him, memories of Hercules flooding out, and for a moment he almost wept at the bittersweet remembrances.

　

He felt Methos' incredibly long and supple fingers in his hair, sensitising the skin everywhere they touched, and Iolaus was drenched, almost drowning in love which the other's honest tenderness elicited in him. There was too much for him to hold, it was pounding out of his heart - too long neglected - leaking uncontrollably from every pore of his skin, every fingertip, and everywhere he touched Methos there seemed to be streamers of flame between them, wreathing out around them ...

　

An intensifying headiness alerted Iolaus to the more mundane practicalities and he reluctantly broke from the kiss to breathe, gasping in shock as he retreated to only his own body once more; Methos reached insistently for the contact once again, and Iolaus brushed the other's tenderly bruised lips with gentle fingertips. The Immortal's eyelids fluttered open and the dark, iris-less eyes held a deep surprise and more vulnerability than Iolaus had ever seen in anyone saving the smallest child. He smiled, ruefully; clearly he was something more than Methos had ever expected and the knowledge filled Iolaus with a sense of purpose and a need to protect this man - ridiculous considering the irony of the difference in their respective ages.

　

Methos was hundreds and hundreds of years old and yet here he was, still capable of being surprised by a Greek who would probably never live to see sixty. Something incredibly sweet and at the same time, sad, blossomed inside Iolaus; something which made him think of Hercules again, who, having finally been claimed by death, had been in the Elysian Fields with others that he loved, this last seven years now. This was something he had felt only with the demi-god and was admittedly only part of the incredibly complete relationship which they had shared, but even only this achingly sweet, and tender feeling was enough for Iolaus to want to cling to it, in celebration of that love that he and Hercules had shared, and in joy that he could actually feel it with another, which he had sworn could never be possible again.

　

When Hercules had died, Iolaus had been prepared to find the man responsible and die, whilst relieving the man of his own life. It had taken him ten long, gruelling months, and when he finally had the man under his hands, had found himself capable neither of killing the man, nor of dying himself in any attempt.

　

His life, his belief in himself, had left him that day and had only just - slowly, and over the past few months - returned to him. His heart, still and cold, had only just this moment, learned that it was capable of still beating; sweetly, strongly and in the warmth, need and love of another.

　

A breeze stole into the room across the open balcony and caressed his cheeks, bringing to his notice for the first time, the slight sting of a salty wetness on them. Methos, his eyes openly devouring Iolaus, leaned in slowly and laying his tongue softly to Iolaus' right cheek, trailed it with the most exquisitely erotic tenderness from the corner of his mouth, where the tears had lingered in their journey, up, up, across the skin to rest, then gently lap, at the ridge beneath Iolaus closed eye. To Iolaus, the most practiced hand, with the softest, warm moist cloth, could not have washed away the tears more lovingly than Methos just had. The older man closed his mouth, finally, and kissed, whisper kisses, all along the lines of tiredness and age beneath and around his left eye, as if trying to wish them away.

　

When he moved his head slightly, only to begin on the tears on his other cheek, more appeared, squeezing from beneath Iolaus' tightly closed lids and his ragged breathing came more now from a growing and unstoppable excess of feeling, than from arousal. This ... this too, he had only known with Hercules and had believed gone from him forever. To have it now, after all this time was ...

　

Was ...

　

There were no words for it. Iolaus couldn't tell whether he was deliriously happy or in a delirium of anguish; the two feelings were so close they could have been brothers, and he balanced on a knife edge between them. 'Hercules and Ares with me in the middle again', his mind insisted on supplying for him. Should he giggle at that?

　

Well, it did tickle. He giggled.

　

Methos pulled slowly out of a long, softly sucking kiss at the corner of Iolaus' left eye, his eyes popping open and revealing an endearingly bemused expression.

　

"Sorry," Iolaus supplied grinning like a lovesick heifer, and not giving a damn, "It's just that I ... I never thought I could ever be this happy again."

　

Methos', his mouth gaping temporarily with yet more surprise, snorted indecorously. "YOU didn't think ..."

　

They clung to each other laughing openly, and Methos sighed; a huge release of breath, taking with it all the hurt and uncertainty and unbearable tension of the past few weeks ... He breathed the intoxicating scent of rose and lavender on the breeze, arching his whole body and closing his eyes with pleasure. When he opened his eyes again, the concern flooded back unexpectedly; he saw something akin to pain on Iolaus' face and laying gentle hands on his shoulders asked him what was wrong.

　

Without words, Iolaus took possession of Methos' left hand and moved it to rest over his aching cock. The touch screamed through him and he gasped, shivered, the struggle not to move against the large, warm hand, not to come, so obvious on his face, in his too-honest eyes. Methos moved in closer and turned Iolaus to the pool side; enfolded him against him, his arm around him, his hand covering the raggedly-beating heart. 　Iolaus laid his head into the bigger man's shoulder and gave in to the grip of spirallingecstasy. Methos was unsure whether the intensity of Iolaus' responses was a result of long neglect or was just another indication of the incredible passion that he was capable of. This Greek was life incarnate; sunshine and storm, rain and warmth, the sultry and intoxicating essence of sandalwood and the exploding pleasure of the fiercest wind. Methos, in all the centuries he had been alive, had known no-one like him, neither man nor woman. He was someone apart, and he began to appreciate now, how fiercely the hero, Hercules, must have loved this man, whilst he'd lived.

　

And how alone Iolaus must have been since his lover's death ...

　

The wordless gasps and moans as Methos massaged Iolaus' throbbing length - dancing in his hand with a fierce, demanding independence which Methos had come to realise was indicative of it's owner's true character - shot through him like the fingers of fire he more normally associated with a quickening. His eyes, as Methos looked at him, were liquid heat and they claimed him with their purity, their knowledge; this man had lived less than half a century and yet what was in those eyes spoke of millenia. More than Methos had ever seen in any mirror. It wasn't possible, and yet the truth of it was plain before him; somehow Methos found he was no longer capable of thinking of Iolaus as the younger man.

　

Then thinking at all became impossible as Iolaus, wrapping his legs possessively around Methos' waist, reached behind him, and grasping the tip of Methos' engorged cock, positioned it at the entrance to his anus and sank down slowly over the inflamed length.

　

Methos just barely had the presence of mind to take a breath and hold it, as he sank to his knees in the pool, his whole body transfixed by the lightning playing havoc at his groin. Somehow, he managed to stagger to his feet, and breaking the surface of the water, gasped for air, trying to clear his vision enough to make sure that Iolaus had survived. His face was frozen in a mask of agonised pleasure; frozen, and then his eyes flying open, he sobbed out a long breath, and crumpled against Methos' chest, his arms and legs clutching around the bigger man's body, their convulsive squeezing impelling Methos to involuntary movement.

　

However, he had no wish to repeat his recent, watery experience - not so much because it bothered him, but because he didn't want to risk Iolaus' drowning, a victim to his own passion - so despite his twitching cock, he made himself push slowly through the water, to the steps, Iolaus still passionately impaled on him, and ascended slowly out of the wonderful but treacherous water.

　

The constantly changing angle of Methos' cock inside him, as the Immortal climbed the six steps out of the pool, massaging his prostate and penis from behind, whilst the learned hand enclosed, warmed, teased and impelled him, almost sent Iolaus crashing over the edge; it was a long fall and he didn't want to take it until they had a bed beneath them to cushion their landing. He had known what effect taking the other man in, would have on Methos, and had prepared for it, holding his breath, finding and staying within that still point between ecstasy and need, but this was something he could not have prepared for.

　

Methos' strides down the long room to the bed at the far end, only made the movement of his penis inside Iolaus stronger and more impatient; gods, he was never going to hold out ...

　

Reaching for that still point again, Iolaus could only brush the edge of it and he teetered dangerously; 　 _'I'm not going to come, this is nothing, I don't feel it, I'm not going to - NOT going to ... NOT ... not ...... aagghh, 　GODS, 　aaAAGGHHhh ..._

　

And then the angle changed and Methos was lowering himself and Iolaus to the bed and the soft, tingling caress of the furs against Iolaus' naked skin sent a jolt from his toes to the roots of his hair and he was lost. There was no breath, only immolating heat, no touch of skin, only strength and soul and flight and he was part of it and all of it ...

　

Methos watched him; even as his own orgasm twitched from deep inside him, through the base of his cock, undulating along the length, enveloping the head, squeezing and spurting his seed, spiralling, shooting up, up, into Iolaus, straining to touch that sweetest, most knowing, most passionate of hearts - even as the overpowering reaction took hold of his body and shook it like a rag doll, Methos watched Iolaus ...

 

Saw the tight clench of the jaw, the strength of his muscular body - the neck, the shoulders, chest - saw the way his hair snapped and flew as Iolaus rode him, rode him into the ground, pushed him, clung to him, his sweet cries piercing the air and Methos' pounding, resonating heart ...

　

Saw the passion and release ... the long, slow release, screaming out almost soundlessly ...

　

..... A moment.

A single heartbeat that lived forever, the silence loud and all-powerful in his head, his mind, his heart ... a truth ...

A living statue, Passion, Beauty and something ... something ...

... and then Iolaus, breath sobbing out of him, small and human again in his arms, and the moment was lost, and Methos had been unable to capture that last truth; it had skittered away from him with Iolaus' breath. Sadness took hold of him and squeezed tears from his heart, even as tears escaped his open, wondering eyes.

　

Cast up on a beach of conflicting emotions, Methos looked down at the tousled head, trying to bury itself in his shoulder, and forcing open his hands from where they had gripped Iolaus' waist, he enfolded the smaller, trembling body in his arms possessively, hugging the precious human against him, hands roaming his back, tenderly spreading warmth wherever they touched. His heart reached out, through his mouth, planting small, passionately tender kisses on the blond hair, along the pulse at his temples, still pounding strongly in the aftermath of passion. 　The small hand on his breast, over his heart was possessive and freeing in a single breath; how this man made him feel was so much a new experience that Methos could only respond from his naked heart - responses learned over many many centuries, totally useless to him now. 　He reached to kiss the eyelids, still closed, and content spread that wide, warm mouth into a happy smile. 　Iolaus opened his eyes lazily, and Methos fell into a blue sky.

　

Wonderfully innocent brown eyes gazed down, possessive and yet claimed, at Iolaus and he reached up to kiss those still hungry lips. 　He needed to try and express how grateful and how happy he felt for the opportunity to truly live again; he had been held in the four walls of mere existence for too long. 　Methos had given him his life back: the free, fresh air on his skin, the natural scents and sights of the world he had roamed with Hercules; but he had also given him back his self-esteem and a key to his heart, locked away and dying for what had seemed an eternity.

　

Now it was free and it was time to celebrate. 　The mouth on his warmed once more, and already Iolaus could feel the insistent demands of his desire as his penis filled again, urging him to more exquisite play with this unique immortal, who knew so much and yet somehow, was still capable of being surprised, and finding innocence again, in that surprise. 　His arms snaked around his dark-haired lover and crushed Methos against him. 　"Take me ..." he whispered heatedly, and throwing his head back with pleasure as the flesh inside him twitched and grew and moved, hitting that sweet place inside and nudging deliriously at it again and again ...

　

Methos had just enough breath. 　"Gods, Iolaus ... again!!? 　Oh ... yesssss...." and laying Iolaus down to the furs once more, arching his long back, Methos supported himself on his hands, his hips moving, thrusting and twisting of their own accord, so strong was the siren song of Iolaus' strong, passionate body and even stronger and more passionate heart.

　

This time he was barely able to notice as Iolaus reached for his own flesh and teased himself, just running the tips of his fingers over the weeping slit lightly, again and again. 　But when he did, Methos almost came just at the sight. 　He wanted to do that, wanted to tease and torment, and make Iolaus scream for him; he wanted to come just from his lover's responses. 　Moving Iolaus' hands away from his desperate member, and fighting to still his driving hips, Methos pushed himself and Iolaus upright with just his hands and forcing himself to relax against the cramp in his back, managed to bring his legs around, and his knees under him, enabling him to free his hands and his mouth in order to pleasure Iolaus.

　

"Iolaus, please ... let me..."

　

Drawing his hands up to hold onto the bigger man's shoulders, Iolaus just barely nodded, agreement more in the eager heat in his eyes, which flashed with a wanton humour.

　

Still rocking gently inside his lover, Methos spread his hands over Iolaus chest and let them roam slowly; across and down his sides, lightly, sensitising the skin until Iolaus' hard length was twitching at each touch, then back to his nipples, just resting on them lightly and concentrating all his attention on the taut, erect, brown nubs of flesh, concentrating and sending energy through his fingers into them. 　Then he withdrew his hands and leaning down, took the nipples, by turns, into his mouth, suckling and lapping at them with his tongue. 　Iolaus arched beneath him and Methos again withdrew leaving Iolaus panting and desperate beneath him.

　

The twitching member trapped between their bodies was poking Methos' belly, demanding attention, and leaning back once more, he continued the play across the head which Iolaus himself had begun, his fingers tapping lightly in sequence across the head. 　Iolaus bucked so hard in response to the eroticism of the touches that Methos couldn't keep it up and he had to reach out a hand, touching more steadily on Iolaus' chest to still him. 　Eventually Iolaus looked back at him, once his breathing had slowed to a more manageable pace, and the fire flashing there threatened a wonderful promise of retribution.

　

"You ... want me to hold still ... while you're doing **_that_** to me!!?" 　Iolaus shook his head, doubting in the extreme, as to whether it was possible.

　

"You can," Methos told him, lovingly, "the same way you kept from breathing water when you took me in the first time." 　He gave Iolaus time to focus himself a little more and then began the play again, this time, keeping his own hips still.

　

Iolaus somehow managed to obey the Immortal's instruction, by focussing on the little geckos that scampered across the corner of the room, flashing back and forth from the corner almost like a spider building a web. 　He watched as one of them, sighting some insect, flashed out it's tongue, so quickly - there and gone again - that Iolaus had no chance to see just what it was that the tiny lizard had mopped up as food. 　Then Methos changed the moves, stilling his fingers, just resting lightly on the begging slit, and moving and rotating his hips, sending searing shocks through Iolaus' body that he could not help but respond to. 　He was close, so close, so close...

　

... and then the hip movements were still again, the penis inside him just nudging against the prostate and there was nothing. 　He just about had time to focus himself again, and then those maddening fingers began their restless, tormenting tapping on the slit, in an insistent and patternless rythmn ...

　

He could only just breathe; it took all his concentration just to do that, and the geckos became his whole world in his eyes. 　He could see the flash of sunlight on their scales, hear the patter of their tiny feet across the marble ...

　

He was dying ...

　

And then the penis inside him, moved smoothly, deeper inside him, pushing hard across the prostate and deeper, and then back, and the tapping was driving him insane, and the push deeper inside him and the fingers and ....

　

Methos needed to stop, but he couldn't. 　In his response to the unexpected return of his love, he had forgotten one vital thing; Iolaus was not Immortal. 　He could die. Methos could see the pulse beat at neck and temple - too fast, the breath, no longer controlled, had escalated into hyperventilation, and the eyes, black pools, glazing, going down into the dark ...

　

"Iolaus ... Iolaus, breathe, breathe!!"

　

He pulled away, hissing as the wall of muscles squeezed his member painfully as he withdrew, and he rapidly pushed on Iolaus' chest to get him to expel the breath, and keep him from drawing more for a second and then let up. 　The hunter's lungs expanded again, and again, Methos pushed down, held for a second and then let up again. 　This time the intake of breath was more controlled, but the arms around him were clutching him, squeezing the breath out of his own lungs, and though awareness was returning to the eyes, there was confusion and even, yes ... even a hint of frustration.

　

Methos looked down to the still erect penis and noticed for the first time, that Iolaus hadn't actually ejaculated yet.

　

Gods, the mental control that must have taken ...

　

A touch on his arm and he looked back at the blonde; his eyes were begging for release, so without another word or action, Methos bent and took first the head and then the whole length into his mouth, long years of practice enabling him to circumvent the gag reflex, and swallowed hard and continuously until Iolaus, fingers clutching and kneading the dark hair like a contented cat, an almost agonised sigh the only sound, jerked and came, his lithe frame hunched and taut as the paroxysm swept through him.

　

Methos continued to swallow until the strong undulations of the tormented flesh in his mouth and throat stilled to a gentle twitching and then pulling back, he released the penis, deflating slowly, 　from the warm, wet softness of his mouth and immediately laid himself down next to Iolaus, taking him in his arms and holding him against the heaving confines of his own ribs, soothing the heated flesh with his shaking hands, whispering calming words to the mortal he had too nearly lost to his combined enthusiasm and neglect.

　

"It's alright, Iolaus, I'm sorry, I never should've ... 　Please forgive me, I forgot ... 　I forgot ..."

　

Iolaus opened his eyes, for a moment confused, and then slowly began to realise what had just happened. 　It shocked him to full awareness and he tried to sit up, meaning to rub some feeling back into his limbs which still felt like they were made of cotton wool, but a sudden pain in his chest and left arm, left him helpless and gasping for breath once more. 　"Aaa-ghh, Methos, I ... Oh, _gods!!_ "

　

A spasm of pain rippled through his chest and Methos, seeing him clutch his chest and hold his arm stiffly, realised that his bold, beautiful lover was not yet out of danger. Bringing him slowly up into a seated position, his back against the pillows propped against the wall which edged the end of the bed, he gathered the furs and sheets and wrapped them around Iolaus, urging him to remain calm.

　

"I'll fetch my physician; don't worry, you'll be fine. 　He has a potion that will take away the pain and the discomfort. 　Just ... stay still and try not to worry. 　I'll be right back," and leaping from the bed, Methos ran out to the corridor and called for Cassius, his house physician, whom he kept for his servants and friends, since he had no need of one himself. 　He was the only other one, apart from Iolaus who knew the Immortal's secret.

　

Iolaus meanwhile, was trying to relax into the pain, instead of fighting it. 　He had seen the same symptoms in his mother, a few months before her death; the doctors had said it was a failing of the heart. 　'Well, at least I know the damn thing still works **_to_** fail,' he thought; 'I'd almost forgotten it,' he told himself.

　

That was a lie, of course; he had always known the state and hiding place of his heart. 　Nevertheless he had tried to bury such thoughts deeply enough that they wouldn't bother him anymore. 　Sometimes he had almost succeeded. 　At least until he'd been arrested for not paying some tax for fishing somewhere he had thought to be common land. 　He had been far from home and unaware of the customs of the roman governor, Polonius. 　As a result he had been sold on the slave block to a roman consul, Gaius. 　Gods, how he had fought that, and still it had done him no good.

　

Slavery was anathema to Iolaus, and he had helped Hercules to vanquish it's vile dehumanising clutches in many places in Greece, years before; but nothing he tried, no move, not even any of his old hunter's tricks, were able to free him this time and he remembered that time with difficulty now, as he fought to focus his breathing. 　It only reminded him of the panic of that first day under Gaius' hands ...

　

____________________________________________________________

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Torture, Rape and angst and suffering, I'm afraid. Poor Iolaus ...

Chapter Two

(A few months earlier)

　

.......... "So then; what's this lively piece of meat I have paid good money for? 　Can you not get it to behave, Tintarus?"

　

Tintarus was Gaius' slave master and he hung his head before his master; Iolaus had fought every move since his unfair sentencing and Tintarus' eunuch guards had been hard pressed to keep him under any kind of control. 　Tintarus had himself, flogged Iolaus until the hunter's back was raw and his blood pooled on the floor, but somehow, Iolaus had still fought against the fitting of the iron manacles and slave collar that Gaius insisted all his slaves should wear for the first six months of their possession. 　Usually, after that, the slaves were so dis-spirited that they were no longer capable of escape.

　

Finally, the house guard had been called and they managed to restrain the new slave enough to tie him to a wood frame, six foot on a side, arms and legs stretched as if for a cross. 　His clothing was gone, including his breech clout, to be replaced with a rag of only the thinnest linen barely wrapped around his loins, and it was in this state that Iolaus was presented to Gaius now. 　Tied to the frame he could do nothing, but he still struggled, trying to pull on the bonds to loosen them, and spitting some very inventive curses at anyone who came anywhere near him.

　

When Gaius approached, having already announced to Iolaus with his ill-chosen words, who he was, Iolaus spit in his face and told him to go back to Tartarus where he was spawned.

　

Iolaus expected an annoyed and angry response to this and tried to prepare himself for more pain, and so was surprised when it didn't come. 　Instead the man wiped his fingers through the spittle on his face and neck and then sucked them slowly, his eyes never leaving Iolaus' face.

　

"So, this is the taste of a Greek's wrath, is it?" he proclaimed, and his teeth gnawed gently at his lower lip. 　The disinterest in his pale gold eyes turned to the fierce hunger of an eagle suddenly sighting prey, and Iolaus paled at the realisation that he had just bought himself punishment that would be far worse than pain alone. 　Gaius moved in closer and reaching out a lazy hand, traced it lightly over Iolaus' torso - a wandering path from the hollow at the base of his throat all the way down to his groin, where the hand came to rest briefly, fingertips just touching the bulge beneath the linen.

　

Then, in one swift snatch, the linen was gone and the exposed genitals fell into Gaius' waiting and eager fingers. 　The roman stroked gently and the penis came to life, betraying Iolaus with the instinctive response. 　Gaius looked up into Iolaus' reddening face and flame-filled eyes and almost laughed. 　"I think I'm going to enjoy breaking you, slave. 　Such a large, juicy bundle for someone so small. 　I think I might save you for the feast tonight, I'm sure my friends will appreciate you being the main course!"

　

Summoning Tintarus with a small gesture of one hand, Gaius whispered in his ear. 　Tintarus flashed a look back at Iolaus for a moment, and his heart, still handfast with his courage, began to shrink away at the look in the man's eyes. 　It was fear. 　Not **_of_** him, but 　 ** _for_** him, and Iolaus' mind began to race with all the horrible possibilities that might befall him now. 　Tintarus turned and left, returning a few minutes later with a large African slave. 　A block of ice began to form in Iolaus' stomach when he noticed the size of the man's own genitals; he was hung like a horse, and a growing suspicion formed in Iolaus' mind now, as to what Gaius intended.

　

The roman obviously noticed the horror on Iolaus' face and smiled again; a feral smile that came from the seat of the man's absolute control over others. 　Looking over to the African, he issued his instructions. 　"Suck him," he ordered and the man fell to his knees before Iolaus. 　"Make him come for me."

　

Drenched in relief, Iolaus nevertheless had to fight to try and keep this pleasure from Gaius. 　He was determined to give him nothing that he wanted. 　But the man on his knees before him was very skilled and he soon had Iolaus' penis erect and throbbing with its own wanton life. 　He tried to hold his breath to keep it from betraying his state of arousal, but that only heightened the sensations. 　He tried to control his breathing, but a finger inserted into his anus, wriggling and pressing inwards, soon joined by another, and rubbing over the same place inside him, stimulating the prostate and the root of his cock, swiftly made that impossible too. 　Iolaus was soon twisting and writhing under the large man's ministrations and his moans and huge, ragged breaths, echoed around the courtyard.

　

The moans turned to sobs as the slave increased the pace of tongue, lips and fingers and Gaius' eyes slowly closed with pleasure as he heard and recognised the sadness and shame in those cries. 　His head went back and he sighed softly in his victory. 　No matter what happened now, the first victory was his and his new slave knew it. 　The shame leaking from Iolaus' eyes with his tears, proclaimed Gaius the victor and the roman's smile widened, finally reaching his eyes. 　He licked his lips as the African brought his other hand into play to fondle the tight scrotum, and with a scream, Iolaus came, shooting hard into the other man's throat as he swallowed hard, massaging the already impossibly stimulated head. 　His whole body stiffened, pulling on the bonds by which he was attached to the wood frame, and jerked, spasming in the intensity of his climax.

　

By now, a small crowd of Gaius' friends had gathered to line the balustrade of the upper balcony which surrounded the courtyard on three sides; they had heard that Gaius had a new slave to be instructed and, knowing the man's methods had come to watch the 'entertainment'.

　

Coming slowly back from the black oblivion that the African had sent him spiralling into, Iolaus became aware of the sound of clapping. 　His mind deceived him for a moment and he looked around to see what was of so much interest. 　Opening his eyes had been a mistake. 　He took in the courtyard, Gaius and the guards, the people, women as well as men, lining the Gallery, and the man before him, leaning back on his heels now, and his heart, summoned by fear and indignation, began to die. 　He, **_he_** , was the source of the entertainment; **_his_** arousal, **_his_** sexual responses, his heart, laid out naked, for all to see.

　

A sudden wave of nausea and fever heat gripped his guts and he couldn't keep from emptying the few contents of his stomach on the ground before him, the slave dodging to one side to avoid it. 　The vile taste and the sting of the bile in the back of his throat and nostrils made Iolaus long for water, but he knew that there would be none forthcoming, and there was no way that he would ask for any. 　He missed the hand signal from Gaius and so was once more taken by surprise when the guards holding the frame suddenly tipped it forward and held it horizontal at hip level. 　The words Iolaus had first feared to hear were uttered now.

　

"Fuck him. 　I want pain; I want blood. 　I want him to beg for his life."

　

Iolaus felt the back end of the frame dip a little and then the meaty hands on his buttocks, pulling them apart. 　His heart was slamming against his ribs; there was no way he could stretch to take the African; it would tear him apart. 　He would probably bleed to death if he didn't die from shock at the pain. 　He didn't want to die this way, he _couldn't_... his place, his time, was on a battlefield somewhere, defending others from harm and wrong; not like this, not in shame and agony like **_this_** ...

　

The fever heat rushed up through him again and he fainted.

　

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	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can Iolaus be saved? More torture and suffering.

Chapter Three

The sun had been beating down on the new slave's unprotected skin for hours; Methos had noticed also that he didn't complain as the others would have by now. 　He had seen the man broken only hours before, but now, it seemed that the effect was shallow and had not lasted. Methos determined to take a closer look at the man, as even from here, he could feel something different emanating from Gaius' recent acquisition. 　It wasn't just the small yet sturdy, athletic, naked and incredibly tempting, golden body, nor the wild glory of those brilliant blond locks; it was something that just radiated out from him, like an unquenchable burning light. 　He would not be tamed easily, this one, although he wondered how wise it was for this man to hold out for as long as he had.

　

He had seen, along with the other guests, how Gaius had begun the new slave's 'instruction'. 　It had sickened him somewhat, although he had also found the man's responses to be disturbingly arousing too, but he himself, had learned to control his own; Rome was rife with such practices and if he was to survive here, amongst its inhabitants, then he had to restrain his altruistic impulses. 　That he had them at all was due to his having been a slave once himself, but he had learned, back then, to bend his will to another's wishes in order to stay alive and reasonably sane. 　This Greek apparently had not.

　

Moving away from the balcony wall now, he made his way down the steps which led down to the pit where the slave was staked out in the hot afternoon sun, lips dry and cracked, skin burned painfully. 　Someone came out from the cloistered walk and threw a large jar of water over the slave. 　If he wasn't taken out of the sunlight soon his skin would begin to blister and he would be suffering from sunstroke.

　

Methos approached slowly. 　He stopped near the outstretched limbs, seeing the pale skin already sheened with sweat where the water hadn't touched him, the jaw muscles clenched tight against the agony. 　No sound, not a murmur. 　This one would never really be broken until he was nearly dead, and that, Methos had already realised, would be an incredible waste.

　

Gaius had neither the inclination nor the ability to appreciate such a one. 　The only good slave, to him, was one totally subservient to his needs - or dead.

　

Methos sighed as he observed the slave a moment or two longer; his decision was already made. This one was nothing more than an annoyance to his friend and countryman, Gaius; to Methos, however ...

　

One more moment, and then he turned on his heel and entered the house, looking for his host.

　

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"I hear we are to have more entertainment at the feast tonight," Methos commented casually as he helped himself to olives from a bowl held by a naked Ethiopian woman who almost wore her slave collar proudly. 　Methos had been unable to decide whether he applauded her for that or not.

　

"Entertainment; yes, my dear Cassus. 　A slave ... perhaps you saw him being disciplined this afternoon ...?"

　

"Er ... yes, I did, Gaius;" and Methos searched swiftly, for something to say, to send the conversation the way he wanted. 　"I'll warrant you paid much for him ...?"

　

"Hmm; too much. 　He had spirit but it has swiftly been curbed; I don't know whether he is fit for the tasks though; he doesn't seem to have the stomach for what I intended him for," 　and a wry smile appeared on Gaius' face. 　No effort was needed for Methos to interpret that statement. 　The slave had a golden beauty impossible to miss, but his fainting earlier on would have weighed against him with his new master. 　Methos knew what that meant. 　Any slave that disappointed this early on was held for the Wagering. 　An 'entertainment' would be arranged and Gaius and his guests would lay wagers as to how long it would take for the slave to die under whatever torture or ill-treatment Gaius had decided on. 　Methos was determined to see this slave escape that fate. 　Already he had a plan ...

　

But that would have to wait until evening. 　For now, Gaius was staging the afternoon games where more wagering would take place; men against animals, men against each other, the consul didn't care, so long as it made him money.

　

The roar of the crowd of two hundred spectators came in on the air drifting in across the balcony, signalling that the games were about to begin. 　Gaius, Methos and a few more of the consul's guests moved outside to take their places in the special box. 　This was something else that Methos could have done without, but his place in roman society was very much dependent on Gaius; the man had a lot of pull with the emperor. 　Settling an indifferent mask over his features, Methos reached for a jug of wine and poured some into his goblet; he looked over to Gaius who was smiling for the crowds and waving to them. 　Perhaps feeling the touch of Methos gaze, the consul looked back at his guest and smiled.

　

"Let the games begin, eh, Cassus?"

　

Methos raised his goblet to the man and the mask grinned enthusiastically. 　"Oh, yes, Gaius, absolutely. 　Let them begin ..."

　

The wine curdled in his stomach. 　Well that was okay; he could visit the vomitorium later ...

　

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Chapter Four

When they finally came to get him ready for the 'entertainment', Iolaus was unconscious and shivering with fever, his skin blistering, his eyes, lips and genitals, unbearably tender. 　Nevertheless, they put him in the water to clean him of the grime and sweat, and he screamed as the heat of the merely warm water seared his nerve endings. 　It roused him back to wakefulness and more fear; once lifted from the water, he could smell instantly the lavender oil they then anointed him with - although it served to engender the beginning of healing his skin, an insistent voice in his mind argued that that wasn't its only purpose. 　Even if the aroma of the lavender wasn't intended to arouse, it meant that he wasn't to be left to his own devices for the next few hours; this cleansing and oiling wasn't for **_his_** benefit, obviously.

　

"Wha -"

　

He couldn't speak past the dryness of his mouth and throat, and his tongue felt like a huge ball of rag in his mouth. 　Someone grabbed his hair and poured water down his throat, and he nearly choked into unconsciousness again.

　

"Not like that! 　Simpleton ... here let me ..."

　

It was a woman's voice, and the rough hold on his hair was released, to be replaced by more gentle hands holding his head steady, whilst the crude pottery cup was held to his lips and tipped slightly, enabling him to drink at a slower pace.

　

"Tha - thank ... you ..." Iolaus managed to say after several mouthfuls of the cool, refreshing liquid. 　There was no reply for a moment, and then a soft whisper sent more chills through his still shivering body.

　

"No need to thank me, slave; in a few hours, you'll wish I'd let you choke to death."

Reaching out a shaky hand to touch the one wrapped around the cup which was still held to his lips, Iolaus looked up into a pair of dark brown eyes, which were not without sympathy, and he tried to smile in return, but his insides were roiling now, and his question was forestalled as he felt the water, so recently swallowed, pushing up into his throat. 　Seeing and recognising the signs, the woman grabbed for a bowl and placed it before him as he heaved, painfully; first the water and then bile, until he was heaving drily, the convulsive spasms refusing to stop.

　

Putting the bowl to the floor, the woman moved and pulled him against her and reached around to massage the tension from his back and shoulders. 　Gradually the heaves quieted and stopped, and he could breath again. 　Iolaus was so weak that he almost didn't have the strength to pull away from her; what was more, he didn't want to. 　It was the first sympathetic human contact he had in a long while and he just wanted to stay there, close his eyes and sleep; but her hands pushing gently against his collarbones now, told him that that could not happen, and he allowed her to help him push himself upright again. 　When he looked at her to thank her once again he could see some awful fate awaiting him in the guarded warning in her eyes.

　

"Wha - what's going to happen to me?" 　he asked her, his voice rasping in his throat. 　She shook her head - she didn't want to go there - but he tightened the hold he found he had on her arm. 　"Please? 　I have to know; I don't want to give him anything because I don't know what's going to happen. 　If I know, I can prepare myself for it." 　She still shook her head.

　

"I don't think that's possible," she told him, ignoring the shocked stares of the other slaves in the room, as she broke the rules to converse with him. 　"You are going to be tortured to death; I don't know how. 　Sometimes the method is not decided until a few moments before the slave is presented. 　Gaius and the other guests will lay wagers on how long it takes for you to die."

　

She had to look away from the horror in Iolaus' eyes; thus it was that she didn't see him slowly conquer it and grasp at his courage again until it was shining out of his eyes.

"Well, if I'm ... going to die ... I guess I can ... at least try and lose that insane bastard some money ..."

　

She looked up with shock herself as the words penetrated her consciousness. 　"Gods ... he was right ..." she murmured, so softly that only Iolaus heard her. 　A blazingly fast parade of emotions travelled her features, each one proclaiming some kind of triumph in her eyes, and then she was on her feet, all business again. 　Reaching behind her to a low dais, she retrieved a jug of some foul-smelling concoction and poured some into the cup. 　"Drink it, slave;" she told him firmly, seeming disinterested once more. 　"You cannot be presented to the company as you are now; it will cure your sick stomach and chills." 　She waited until he had drained the medicine and then picking up the jug, turned on her heels and - without another word - left the room.

　

He had no reason to believe that there was anything left for him but revenge on Gaius, if he could possibly hold out against whatever they had planned for him - enough for the consul to lose his bet at any rate - but Iolaus found a small, and totally illogical, nugget of hope seated firmly inside him. 　The words replayed in his memory; 　'... he was right ...'

　

' ... _He_ was right ...' 　Not Gaius, obviously. 　Someone who had seen unexpected courage in Iolaus, and mentioned it to the woman who had helped him? 　She was obviously in charge of the slaves here, or at least was senior to them, which meant she was in Gaius' employ; was the mystery man someone else here, a member of the guard or even the household perhaps?

　

Someone who might help him escape?

　

Perhaps he was hoping for nothing, though. 　After all, Gaius would punish severely any such attempt to help any of his slaves; the woman had clearly risked such punishment herself, just by daring to converse with him. 　Nevertheless, that small gold piece of hope lodged near his heart refused to be argued away. 　And it certainly couldn't hurt to be ready for anything ...

　

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	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaius plans Iolaus' death. Methos has to think quickly ... A bit more torture but then some respite.

Chapter Five

Aramantha bowed deeply towards Methos and turned to leave the room.

　

"Not that way," Methos told her. 　Beckoning her over to a corner of the room shrouded in shadow with a pillar and several houseplants, Methos showed her the slim crack in the wall where it joined the outer boundary of the house. 　Pushing on it, she gasped in surprise as a section of the wall swung inwards to reveal another room beyond. 　"From this room you can exit the house directly above the river. 　From there you can make your way along the outside wall and enter via the palisade. 　No-one will suspect you have even left the compound. 　And Ara ..."

　

She looked up at him as he caught at her hand and held it fast for a moment.

　

"Thank you for what you did for him. 　Once this is over I will make another request to Gaius; who knows? 　He maybe so pleased at ridding himself of such a recalcitrant slave, that he will part with you as part of the deal ..."

　

Her eyes flashed wide as she realised what he was telling her and her heart leapt. 　To be free of the monster ...

　

"Say nothing for now; I may not be able to procure you as well, or at least not yet."

Aramantha nodded quietly and slipped through the gap into the hidden room. 　Releasing his hold on the wall, Methos let it come back into place under its own weight, its fit against the outer wall, almost flawless once more. He took a moment or two to marshall his thoughts and then began to prepare himself for the evening feast.

　

____________________________________________________________

　

Methos had wondered whether he would still feel the same when he saw Iolaus again; he was surprised to find that he did not. 　In fact, if anything, his regard for him increased when he was brought out, in chains, wrapped in a thin toga. 　Whilst Gaius explained the purpose of the night's entertainment, Iolaus stood firm and had his gaze firmly fixed on the consul; contempt for the man plain on his face.

　

Methos had come across reactions like this before, though not often; most were too fearful of pain, let alone death. 　Nevertheless, he wondered whether Ara had lied to him when she told him that Iolaus was aware of what was to happen to him. 　Surely when his fate was announced ...

　

It was clear that Gaius was also astounded, not to mention displeased when Iolaus' expression altered not an iota when he announced Iolaus' sentence of death for constant disobedience, and that the torture was to be 'The Ribbon and The Wine'. 　Everyone in the room was well acquainted with this inhuman method of torture, and a swift glance at the guests in the room, the roving gaze landing for a moment on Methos, told the Immortal that Iolaus was aware of it too, and praying that the plan succeeded, because it was one of the least pleasant ways of dying.

　

As Iolaus was prepared for the torture, Gaius opened the bids on how long he would survive to his guests, reclining and eating, around the room. 　When the consul's gaze fell on him, Methos already had a civil and even interested smile on his face, as he proclaimed for all to hear that he wondered whether Gaius would be all that put out if he offered to buy Iolaus, professing an extreme interest in his golden beauty.

　

"Well, now, Cassus Aurelius, gold for Gold is it!? 　I can appreciate your taste but I really don't think he'll be fit for it."

　

"I had rather wanted him for breeding stock, actually," answered Methos easily enough, holding a large bunch of grapes before him, which he had been depleting slowly by biting the fruit off the vine. 　It hid any sign that his heart was actually almost racing in his chest. 　He had not felt this nervous for as long as he could remember; certainly not over another person's safety.

　

"An intriguing proposal, Cassus; I'd want a high price for him. 　He's been no end of trouble and provided me with no service at all. 　Let's see now, I paid eight hundred dinars for him; I should want at least two thousand to let him go to you."

　

"Two thousand, five hundred," came from somewhere else in the room. 　Methos searched the room; it had been a woman's voice over to his left, so that had to be Castus' wife, again, appropriately enough, named Aurelia, because she had very thick yellow hair. 　Methos breathed a silent sigh of relief; it seemed that he had at least saved Iolaus from a painful death, although there was no way that he would let him go to anyone else. 　Especially not to Aurelia; beautiful she might be, but her proclivities were almost as bad as Gaius'.

　

Besides that, there were other stirrings in his body, beside the wild beating of his heart, which he sought to hide from the rest of the room. 　When the toga had been stripped from him, instead of cringing at his nakedness, Iolaus had somehow managed to stand even taller, the flash of his eyes more fierce and alive than Methos had seen them thus far, and the breath had stalled in his lungs as he beheld the courage and beauty of this man.

　

From that moment he wanted him for himself, and an almost unhealthy hatred of Gaius had risen in his breast, as he remembered what the consul had already made Iolaus suffer at his behest.

　

There was another bid of two thousand eight hundred from someone near Gaius; Lucius, a wine merchant and a friend of Methos'. 　That made things awkward, if he ended up being the only person bidding against him; Lucius did not let things go easily, and although Methos could easily and legitimately outbid anyone in the room, including Gaius himself, he knew that Lucius would be unbearable for awhile afterwards, and would ask questions, possibly even trying to buy Iolaus from him.

　

So he let another two bids come between Lucius' and his, leaving the amount bid so far at three thousand, two hundred. 　He decided to take a risk, hoping that he had judged the mood of the room aright: interested, but not eagerly so. 　He couldn't afford to upset too many people. 　It would be better if he upset none at all, which was what he was hoping for. 　Nevertheless, he did want to make his determination quite clear; after all, he was no soft child as the others there appreciated, and it would be expected.

　

"Five thousand," he announced into an interim of silence and a slight gasp came from one or two of the guests. 　Methos held his eyes firmly on Iolaus for the space of perhaps five heartbeats, his gaze sweeping him covetously, though appraisingly, from head to toe. 　Then he looked back across at Gaius and gave him his innocent little boy look, which was known and not intended to fool, but merely to indicate a sense of humour at the proceedings. 　"I really do want him quite **_badly_** , Gaius ..."

　

The room fell into laughter which Gaius joined in with, and flinging up his hands, acquiesced finally. 　"Very well, Cassus, if you must have him, then who am I to refuse? 　But come, couldn't I torture him a little first, I really must have some entertainment, and he has been an awful nuisance."

　

There was a steel edge to the voice that made Methos suspect that Gaius had seen through his ploy and wasn't prepared to let go without exacting some price. 　Without showing that he still maintained control in Rome, even over something as seemingly insignificant as this.

　

Methos dropped his head, hurriedly marshalling his thoughts for a way to get Iolaus through this with the least damage and pain. 　His own memories of being a slave were too close at his shoulder and almost with a life of their own, urging more compassion than Methos had struck hands with for centuries.

　

Raising his head once more, a laughing grin on his face, he played the only dice he had and prayed that it came up a six.

　

"Oh, very well, Gaius, but I don't want him marked; I've paid five thousand for him, and I don't want him damaged in any way."

　

Rising from his place, Gaius came over to him and took a place at his side, leaning forward over his shoulder, his lips barely an inch from Methos' ear. 　"Oh, very well, dear boy, as you wish. 　Now," addressing the room once more, "what shall we have?"

　

"Well, we were to have a wager, this evening, Gaius," replied Aurelia, "let's see how long he can keep from ejaculating, shall we?"

　

"Under your auspices, Aurelia?" Gaius suggested, a leer appearing on his face. 　"What do you say, Methos? 　He did perform superbly for my African, didn't he? 　And he'll hate it so, won't you, slave?" he finished, looking across at Iolaus, pleased to find his face flushed; jaw working against the anger and shame. 　Gaius reached across and patted Methos' leg before rising once more and making his way over to Aurelia.

　

As soon as the consul's back was turned, Methos risked a glance at Iolaus and was heartened to find a recalcitrant twinkle in his eyes; he nodded - barely a twitch of the head - and then resumed his jaw-working, unhappy face, as slaves came forward to tie him down to the board which had been meant for the more final treatment that Methos had enabled him to avoid.

　

Methos just hoped that Iolaus wouldn't get too noble and hold out for too long. 　Aurelia had a way of knowing just which positions combined with what stimulation, were unbearable, well past the point of pain.

　

There was of course, one more thing to consider; Methos hadn't lied when he told Gaius he wanted Iolaus, even though it had been meant to be interpreted as a humorous statement by the others, Methos hoped he could hold out himself without giving himself away ...

　

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Chapter Six

It had been a battle with his ego and pride, but in the end, Iolaus had given them what they wanted, even though it meant that Gaius had won the wager. 　And it could have been worse; a lot worse. 　It was more important that he survive, even though he ached to spit in the face of every roman in the room, including the women, with the exception of the man who had provided his only means of escape.

　

Lying against the rough caress of the board, his sides heaving, and sweat pouring from his body, Iolaus closed his eyes against the sight of the room and its hideous occupants. 　And waited. 　Finally, hearing the words he'd been praying for, he held onto a sigh of relief, refusing to give them his gratitude, which in truth he owed to but one man.

　

"Free the slave, and have him prepared for his new master," came the hated voice, already disinterested. 　"We still have time for a death wagering; Tintarus?"

Iolaus heard the footsteps as the slave master attended the consul, but was too interested in being untied and led away from the room to hear any more that was said. 　Once out of the room, he let the breath go that he felt he'd been holding onto for days, and almost collapsed to his knees. 　The guards holding him, one on either side and sensible that he was no longer in their jurisdiction as it were, merely waited until he could right himself and then continued on with him, back to the bath house.

　

Once there, they relinquished him to Aramantha and walked away, heading for the slave quarters to fetch the wretch to be tortured.

　

Seeing his enervated state, Aramantha summoned him over to the pool which had been refilled and more lavender added. 　Not bothering to use the steps, Iolaus just slid in over the side and held himself under the water, which was much cooler now, simply to let its relaxing touch soothe his over-sensitised and heated body.

　

Iolaus was so tired; but not too tired to appreciate that he was now free of the tyrant, Gaius. 　 He turned to Aramantha to ask her about the man who'd freed him; but she silenced him with a finger to her lips and just told him to hold his patience until he was under his new master. 　"Then you may ask for yourself," she told him, a small smile lightening her lips. 　Agreeing Iolaus returned his attention to just revelling in the wonderfully freeing touch of the water, breathing in its soothing scent of lavender, and closing his eyes, for a moment imagining himself at some pool somewhere; maybe one of those sacred to Aphrodite ...

　

Feeling eyes on his back suddenly, Iolaus cautiously opened his, still appearing to luxuriate in the water, then suddenly turned to be confronted by the very eyes and ears which had shared his suffering since his arrival at the consul's house. 　Aramantha was speaking to him, and she seemed a little shocked that he should be here and not back in his apartments in the guest wing of the house. 　Seeing Iolaus' focus of attention, she raised a hand and introduced Methos to his new acquisition.

　

"Cassus Aurelias; this is your new slave. 　A Greek, by name, Iolaus." 　She dipped her head uncomfortably, obviously unused to such free behaviour from one of Gaius' guests. 　Or perhaps it was not so much the freedom he took upon himself, but the obvious concern for another, whom the rest of the roman world would have considered beneath him.

　

Iolaus, for his part, saw a tall, slim roman with what others might have called a disinterested face; and so it might have been, except for the eyes. 　They were warm and dark and they reminded him inexplicably of Autolycas, former - and now retired - King of Thieves. 　A hard fellow to get to know, but underneath, something more than first was thought. 　In the case of this Cassus Aurelias, Iolaus suspected there was a lot more.

　

He realised suddenly that he was staring, and dipped his head suddenly, not wanting to get off on the wrong foot with this man. 　He had freed him from an intolerable captivity ... although not altogether.

　

Iolaus was still to be slave to this man; he had been bought, like a joint of meat at the butchers, and something of his rebellious heart lurched at the thought. 　A touch on his shoulder caused him to flinch, and he looked back up to see that Cassus was squatted down on his haunches. 　The hand on his shoulder was his, and it squeezed the muscle there gently, in reassurance.

　

"Bow to me now, Iolaus, whilst others can see; but know that there will be no need to do so once we are in my own home. 　You will find that it is not as it is here, in Gaius' house."

　

Methos looked back at Iolaus expectantly, and then almost laughed as he realised that he was not likely to get a reply from a slave who had been taught the hard way not to speak unless he was ordered to. 　 "It's alright, Iolaus; you may speak, whenever you want to. 　I sense you will be an interesting companion."

　

"That wasn't why I said nothing," Iolaus told him, smiling a little himself; a tired, pale blue smile, which delineated his kinder qualities, if not his spirit. 　"I'm grateful to find myself leaving this ... **_Tartarus_** , but ... I was not born a slave, and have never been one until only a few days ago. 　I wish I had never laid eyes on this city!" and his raised voice drew a few stares from other slaves in the baths. 　He stared back at them, almost daring them to argue with him, something in his eyes still pitying them for the prison of their learned servility.

　

Methos took in every moment of this almost silent exchange and said nothing, just rose to his feet and issued his instructions to Aramantha. 　"Clean him up and have him brought to me in the clothes I have left with you." 　He was on his way out when he heard Iolaus speak to him again.

　

"Please! 　I ..."

　

"What is it, slave?" came the voice from across the room, and for a moment, Iolaus was rankled by the name, until he realised that Cassus was speaking for the benefit of the others there. 　Swallowing his pride, he forced fear onto his features, for speaking out of turn and in such a way, and waited silently until Cassus returned to the pool. 　Looking up, Iolaus was relieved to see a hint of wry humour in those brown eyes and he continued more quietly.

　

"The clothes I was wearing when I was arrested; they're virtually all I have, apart from my sword, which I don't expect to see again. 　They ... they, I ..."

　

Once more the hand on his shoulder, and the eyes nearer now and far too much understanding in them for one so young, let alone one who had never known any kind of poverty, as delineated in Cassus' appearance and station. 　Iolaus' eyes narrowed in sudden appreciation of the fact that there was indeed much more to this man than first met the eye.

　

"It's alright, Iolaus; I have your clothes, and your sword. 　I suspect they do much more to delineate the man than the clothes of most men; and the sword is a fine weapon. 　Where did you get it?"

　

"I forged it myself, a long time ago ..." began Iolaus, memory striking suddenly and sending him back to years long past, when he had been at Hercules' side, and he fell silent, and turned away, to hide the tears which still gathered readily in his eyes, at any remembrance of his friend and greatest love, and the times they had had together.

　

"Forgive me ..." he muttered at his seeming rudeness, but Methos had sensed the sorrow summoned by the memory, even as it had taken hold, and felt some grim hand of ice grip his heart, at the unbidden display of feeling in the man before him. 　Settling on his haunches again, he once more placed his hand on Iolaus' shoulder and squeezed.

　

"There is nothing to forgive, Iolaus; I have been there more times than you can possibly imagine ..."

　

Iolaus, his heart pounding with the grief he was struggling to hide, heard the words through a haze of whispered words, which filled his head with more and more visions of the demi-god he had loved almost to distraction, and beyond all reason. 　They pierced the bitter-sweet fog and caught at his attention until his mind was forced to focus on them, simply to discern if he had heard them aright.

　

When he turned his head, seeking confirmation of the words in Cassus' eyes, he was gone.

　

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	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iolaus has been rescued from a barbaric fate, but perhaps he has not completely gotten away from trouble ...

Chapter Seven

(A few weeks later, after Iolaus' release from Gaius' ownership, by Methos)

　

It was a hard thing to take in at first. 　This man, who had stood back and given him enough space to breathe and rediscover the self-respect that had been buried deeper than Iolaus had realised, was almost as old as the gods themselves. 　His name ... not Cassus Aurelias, but Methos, and no roman either, but Babylonian or Sumerian perhaps, and he　had lived so long that he could no longer remember when he had been born.

　

He had been a slave perhaps for centuries, he wasn't sure, and had been enslaved more times than Iolaus had had hot dinners. 　It didn't bear thinking about. 　Little wonder then, that he had compassion and understanding for someone in the position that Iolaus had found himself in.

　

Only one thing stood between the two of them now; Methos had refused to free him. 　When Iolaus had asked him the reason, Methos had told him that he was safer as a slave than as a free man, considering the state of the known world as it was at that time, and that he would make sure that Iolaus wanted for nothing.

　

... _"Except what I want most; my freedom," Iolaus thrust back as a bare and iron-hard fact._

　

Methos shook his head. 　"I cannot let you go, Iolaus," he said simply.

　

"Alright. 　You've told me you won't harm me, that you want me to be companion to you, more than servant;" Iolaus reminded him, reiterating the terms which Methos had first put to him.

　

"Yes."

　

"So what's to stop me from just walking out of that gate, right now?" and Iolaus gestured to the heavy iron gates to Methos' sprawling home, situated on the banks of the Tiber and surrounded on two sides by olive groves.

　

Methos leaned back against a pillar and crossed his arms. 　"Try it and see," he told him, easily.

　

Eyes flashing, Iolaus turned on his heels and walked steadily out of the house. 　He got nearly to the gates and guards appeared, barring his way. 　He kept walking and they attempted to turn him back. 　Not wanting to hurt them, he feinted and dodged, but it seemed that they were able to anticipate him, as wherever he ended up, they were there, in front of him. 　Losing patience now, he lashed out and they merely caught hold of his arms and stilled them. 　Spinning on one leg, he kicked out at one of the guards, but the man had once more anticipated the move and taken a step back, and catching hold of Iolaus' flying left foot, dumped him as gently as possible to the ground.

　

Iolaus tried any number of moves, but it seemed the guards were as fast and well-trained as he, if not better, and in the end, he had to concede defeat. 　He marched back recalcitrantly to the house and, not saying anything had carried on, past Methos, to his own rooms towards the back of the house. 　This was the height of disobedience and bad manners and he expected some reciprocal action on Methos' behalf. 　When none was forthcoming, he tried to leave the house through the gardens and over the high wall which surrounded the property, but whenever he approached the wall it seemed there was another of the highly trained guards somewhere nearby, watching him discreetly. 　Returning to the house, temper burning, Iolaus proceeded to smash up anything he could get his hands on, anything that would break, and even some stuff that wasn't supposed to be able to.

　

Still nothing. 　After two hours of increasing frustration, Iolaus went back to Methos, who was still happily ensconced in his large, luxurious dining hall, feeding tidbits to birds which came to pirch on the laurel strewn gallery accessible from the doorway, which was very wide and always open.

　

Iolaus stood there fuming, his back to Methos, again, the height of bad manners,　until he heard the slap of leather on tile, and the small swish of cloth which told him that Methos had finally deigned to turn towards him. 　He could tell by the barest murmur of a laugh, that　his expression had not changed at all from when he had last seen him three hours previously.

　

_"I don't understand you!" Iolaus threw at him, uncaring now of any inherent risk. 　He was more or less certain that Methos wasn't going to exact any punishment on him for any outrageous thing that he might do, and much as he found that almost as frustrating as not being able to get free, he could grudgingly only admire the man for it._ 　 _After all, inflicting pain or exacting vengeance, Iolaus himself had learned, was a waste of time and no good for anyone.　"You tell me that you don't want me to act like a slave and yet you refuse to free me. 　If that doesn't make me a slave, then I'm the Queen of the gods!"_

　

_"You don't have to understand me;" Methos told him, some dark memory flashing in the depths of his eyes, "just accept me for what I am."_

　

"Which is?" Iolaus spat back.

　

"Who knows?" Methos answered, a surprising lack of certainty in his voice and expression. 　"Maybe you'll end up by telling **me** ..."

　

*

　

'What in Tartarus is that supposed to **_mean?_** ' Iolaus asked himself for the hundredth time. 　What was this Immortal up to, who trusted him with his most closely guarded secret, and yet couldn't tell him the simple truth about his agenda concerning him? 　That he had one was obvious; what and why, remained a mystery. 　He ran the words, weeks old now, through his mind once more ...

　

"You don't have to understand me ..... just accept me for what I am."

　

"Which is?"

　

"Who knows? 　 Maybe you'll end up by telling **me** ..."

　

_'Don't understand me ... just accept me ..._ ' 　It was a challenge, Iolaus decided finally. 　They were instructions; instructions given to a servant who refused to be a servant ...

　

He hadn't done anything he was told since that first day in Methos' house, not since that first show of rebellion. 　Simply lounged about, eating Methos' food, drinking his wine, and obeying none of the commands that Methos gave to him. 　When he was not obeyed, Methos simply repeated the command to another servant, who always rushed to obey.

　

So, it was a challenge; maybe even some kind of game, although Iolaus didn't think so. 　The method Methos was using might be a game, but the end he wanted to achieve ... that was serious, and to suffer such bad behaviour and ill-will, he must want the end result very badly.

　

Iolaus had that itchy feeling between his shoulder blades that the answer was staring him in the face the whole time; that all he had to do was alter his perception slightly and the riddle would be solved. 　Instructions given and ignored. 　Methos accepted this. 　He was obviously waiting for Iolaus to make the next move. 　So what the gods was it!?

　

' _... accept me for what I am ...'_

　

'Which is?'

　

_' ... maybe you'll end up telling me ..._ '

　

You tell me I'm not a slave. 　I want my freedom. 　You refuse to give it to me, yet you tell me I'm not a slave ...

　

You give me orders. 　I don't obey them. 　I eat and drink you out of house and home - and I can't do this much longer; I'm　putting on weight and _dying_ of boredom - and you don't complain. 　You want me to tell you who you are ...

　

The next move is mine.

　

You were a slave once ... more a slave than I have been, or ever will be ... or ever **_could_** be ...

　

So; what is it that I have, that you don't, Methos? 　With all your many lifetimes of experience, I still have something that you don't ...

　

If our positions were reversed ...

　

Actions speak louder than words.

　

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The next day, Iolaus went to Methos as soon as he awoke and told him he was ready to stay with him of his own free will. 　Even before he spoke, looking across into the older man's eyes, Iolaus was aware of tears there, just barely, no more than a fluid trembling at the corner of his eyes. 　Once the words were out, it seemed that Methos breathed a little more easily than before, though he gave no more outward expression of relief save a small wry smile. 　He nodded briefly and gestured toward the garden where he walked every day at this time.

　

Once outside, Iolaus could tell that he did indeed look happier, and returned the smile, with interest, as Methos began to tell him of his plans.

　

"I leave for Alexandria in a day or so, Iolaus; there are volumes of history that I wish to peruse, which might help me to flesh out my own memories. 　Will you come with me?"

　

Iolaus was stumped for a moment. 　"You're **_asking_** me?"

　

Methos just looked at him, his eyes encouraging him to sort this out for himself.

　

"Okay; you're **_asking_** me. 　Why do I feel like I'm back at school," he mumbled, somewhat disgruntled. 　"Yeah, sure, why not? 　Like I was telling myself yesterday, I'm getting fat, lazy, and I'm going crazy having nothing to do! 　Yes, I'll come with you; question is, will I have anything to do while I'm there?"

　

Methos laughed. 　Not particularly at him, Iolaus noted, just ... a laugh. 　An expression of the other man's present good humour, he realised.

　

"You read, Iolaus; there are thousands of books in the daughter library; you can read. 　Learn. 　And protect me."

　

Turning sharply to face the Immortal, Iolaus reached out to stop Methos in his tracks. 　"Protect you? 　From what you've told me, you don't need protection, except maybe from others of your kind, and you'll know about them before I do."

　

"Yes; but nevertheless I will be vulnerable in that city. 　I have enemies there, old enemies, who are mortal, but they will kill me if they discover that I am there."

　

"Then why go there? 　Or why not send me to find what it is you're looking for?" 　All at once Iolaus found himself filled with a need to keep this crazy, mysterious vulnerable Immortal safe, he wasn't sure why.

　

Methos seemed not to understand the request for a moment, and then, his gaze drifting and alighting, presumably on some memory, revealed understanding. 　It also seemed unthinkingly dismissive of the idea, which his next words confirmed.

　

"I can't send you in my place, Iolaus; for one thing, you wouldn't know what to look for, even if I gave you extensive references. 　For another, these men would trace me through you, and you would die, probably quite painfully, in the process. 　No," he proclaimed finally, "we shall both go, and while I am studying you will keep watch for the men I shall show you. 　If any of them appear at the library, I shall need you to warn me. 　Need you to tell me who it is and whether he is alone or not. 　Then I shall know how to deal with the threat."

　

Iolaus, still holding onto Methos' arm, repeated his first question. 　"Why go there in the first place, if it is so dangerous for you?"

　

"Because there is no other place that might even possibly hold any answers. 　The only other library was destroyed, when the museum was destroyed, and that was in Alexandria also. 　I have to go," Methos replied simply.

　

"These answers that you want so badly; they could cost you your life," Iolaus told him. 　"If you die, the answers go for nothing. 　What use are they then?"

　

Methos gently pulled his arm out of Iolaus' grasp, and continued to walk. 　After a moment or two of exasperated indecision, Iolaus caught up to him. 　"I am compiling a set of chronicles," Methos told him, "which will, I hope, in times to come, if I manage to survive, hold keys to history and it's answers - the true answers, not the politically correct ones that the historians will popularise - so that when people finally understand what and who they are, and why they are here, they may free themselves from the pattern of violence which the historians dictate."

　

Iolaus brought him to a standstill once more, hands on the taller man's forearms, and looked up at him, searchingly. 　"Methos; do you really believe that such a thing could ever be possible?"

　

The hazel eyes radiated a sudden quiet desperation; to Iolaus it was like standing in the face of an uncertain breeze suddenly released from some recently unblocked deep underground cavern, only just now finding its way into the world, but so old that it was almost alien.

　

Iolaus shook his head, unable to quite take in the immensity of such a seemingly hopeless quest. 　'Like trying to ignore the gods when you're the son of Zeus,' whispered his thoughts, returning suddenly to Hercules and his constant struggle for a decent life and happiness in the face of what had been overwhelming odds. 　Something old and painful rose up in Iolaus and made him want to try to shake some sense into this man. 　To change the face of history, for ever? 　People changing it, instead of the other way around?

　

"It's impossible, you know that?" Iolaus told him, a weary smile softening the words. 　"I'll do whatever I can to help you, Methos, but I think you're crazy. 　No-one can change history. 　Hercules tried, but it caught up with him in the end ..."

　

"You've mentioned him before. 　I only know that he was a thorn in the side of gods and romans alike."

　

"Only if they didn't behave themselves," chuckled Iolaus, his eyes quickly buried in fond memories of various 'comeuppances' that had been perpetrated on the greedy, 　the selfish and the evil.

　

"I should like to hear more about the truth of this man," Methos stated quietly, and for the first time, Iolaus became aware of the intense enthusiasm of this man's search for the truth that was real, instead of just the truth that was popular.

　

For the first time, Iolaus realised that here was a god-given opportunity to have the reality of his beloved friend and partner, carved in stone, as it were, for the rest of time, if Methos could only achieve his aim. 　Only dimly aware, as he talked,　that the two of them had returned to his quarters where he was rapidly stuffing a minimum of things into a travelling bag to take with him, Iolaus began the slow and wonderful retelling of Hercules' life ...

　

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End of Part One

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End file.
